


Clapperclaw

by whiskyandoldspice (Itsirtou)



Category: Prison Break
Genre: Dubious Consent, M/M, Minor Character Death, Sexual Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-01
Updated: 2012-01-01
Packaged: 2017-11-15 12:26:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,643
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/527307
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Itsirtou/pseuds/whiskyandoldspice
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Michael needs, and Lincoln isn't there to give it to him.  He'll accept whatever he can get.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Clapperclaw

**Author's Note:**

> Set in Sona. Spoilers for Season 3/Good Fences.

He's sick.

He stares at his hands, clasped palms-up in his lap, without a hint of a tremble to betray the desperate need eating away at him. He's no better than an addict. 

Mikey, Lincoln whispers to him, They killed her.

Michael rubs the heel of his palm against his eyes hard, until he sees sparks behind his eyelids. 

Lincoln knows. God help him, Michael needs Lincoln's help so badly that he hates his brother for being on the opposite side of that fence, unable to give Michael what he needs. Hates Lincoln for leaving him with nothing more than a regretful look, full of an infuriating mix of desire and pity. Pity, Michael supposes, because Lincoln knows what Michael is forcing himself to go through.

His vision is hazy; he can't think clearly. The need in him is almost a physical pain. 

They killed her, Lincoln whispers in his head. Michael mouths the words, doubles over on the bunk until his head touches his knees. Tears run down his face and spit drops from his open mouth. Goosebumps stand out on his skin and he shivers. His hands are clenched into fists now, ragged nails digging into his palms so hard that he bleeds.

"Not feeling so well, Scofield?"

When Michael looks up and sees Mahone through blurry vision, he knows. He knows Mahone will understand the ugly need of addiction. He knows that Mahone's almost as fucked up as he is, and Michael puts those two things together and realizes that Mahone can _help_ him.

His mind doesn't even register his own body's movement until he's pushing Mahone against the wall.

"Scofield, what the fuck --"

He slams his mouth over Mahone's and shoves his thigh between Mahone's legs, forcing open lips, slack with surprise, beneath his. He slides shaking, numb hands beneath Mahone's shirt and runs his hands up the sweaty skin, gritty with dirt. 

Mahone shoves him and Michael stumbles, barely catching himself in time to keep from landing hard on the ground. He looks up and Mahone is breathing hard through his nose, lip bleeding from where Michael bit him.

"What the hell do you think you're doing," he hisses. Michael punches Mahone in the face as hard as he can.

Michael _sees_ the second when Mahone's patience snaps, strung thin already by the detox he's going through, and he makes a noise like an angry animal, launching himself at Michael, tackling him to the ground and straddling his torso. His fist connects with Michael's cheek, hard, and Michael moans like a whore as the pain courses through his body with a sickly sweet lightening. Every blow that lands sends a thrill through him and it feels like his skin is on fire, so sensitive that the scrape of his clothes against his flesh hurts him. He arches underneath Mahone's body and loves the weight pressing him down, loves the pain and the blood, and hates himself.

"Fuck. _Fuck,_ Scofield." The blows cease. Michael panics.

"Please," he says, and it hurts to speak. Mahone's eyes are on his mouth, and when Michael sees this, he carefully licks the blood off of his lips.

Mahone pushes himself off of Michael's prone body and stumbles a little, backs against the wall like he's trapped. "What -" he starts to ask, and then stops. Michael's trembling now; if he's pushed too hard he thinks he might shatter.

"I need you to hurt me."

Mahone's eyes are a bright blue against his flushed face. "I don't -"

"Please. _Please._ "

"Scofield, no --"

The words have hardly left Mahone's mouth when Michael hears Lincoln's voice in his head again -- _killed her, they killed her, you killed her_ \-- and he lurches to his knees with the grace of a drunk and lunges for the ties of Mahone's pants. He has them down before Mahone can even say anything more and swallows Mahone's cock with a desperation that disgusts him.

"God," Mahone chokes out, almost doubling over, his hand on Michael's shoulders as if he will push Michael away. Michael sucks hard and Mahone lets out a long, pained groan, and his hands let go.

He curls his tongue around the head of Mahone's cock, and when Mahone moans, "What the fuck do you want with me," Michael almost feels bad for what he's doing, how he's using Mahone. But all of his shame has been eaten up, blown away. Lincoln understands. Michael knows that he hated it, every time that Michael came into his bedroom, a belt in his hand. Michael knows, too, how fucked-up it was for him to ask it of his brother, to look his brother in the eyes and say _Linc, you're the only one I can trust_. It was the most selfish thing Michael's ever done but he needed the feeling behind the hot crack of the belt on his back, the coarse rasp of his brother's tongue on his wounds, the sweet ache of his brother sliding into him with a desperate groan. For those moment,s at least, he was able to stop _thinking_. He just _felt._

It's not the same, in this place. Now when he needs it the most, his brother isn't here to allow Michael his fucked-up martyrdom and all Michael has is this, the heavy weight of Mahone's cock on his tongue and the glimmering promise of release.

Suddenly Michael is pushed off of Mahone and to the floor, but before he can protest Mahone is on him like some vicious animal and Michael arches up into the delicious pain of Mahone biting hard into the muscle of his shoulder, Mahone's fingernails dragging down his sides and leaving welts of slowly-bleeding red. Mahone doesn't say a word, but Michael knows that he understands. The relief is dizzying.

He chokes on a scream when Mahone flips him onto his stomach and slams into him with just spit to ease the way, and it hurts so fucking bad that tears come to Michael's eyes. Mahone's arms are braced on either side of Michael's head as his thrusts drive Michael into the floor of the prison, each drive of his cock sending shivers of pain up Michael's spine. Michael claws at the stone beneath him, panting.

"We're so fucked up," Mahone says with a groan, sweat from his chest dripping onto Michael's back, and Michael gasps at a particularly hard thrust, blind from the agony, the blood and the sweat and the sweet torment driving all thoughts from his mind and leaving him with a beautiful blankness. He whines when Mahone pulls out of him roughly, but he's turned over and Mahone is entering him again and God -- Michael's mouth drops open and he cries out, the pain and pleasure so intense that Sara's face and Lincoln's voice become nothing more than memory.

"Hit me," Michael gasps, because it's never enough, never really enough. Mahone doesn't even hesitate, backhands Michael so hard that his head bounces against the floor, and when Michael licks the blood off of his split lips and tastes the bitter tang of blood in his mouth, he almost comes.

 _More,_ he thinks like the addict he is, _more more more,_ and he doesn't say it out loud but Mahone knows. 

And then suddenly Mahone's long, beautiful fingers are wrapping around his throat and squeezing, and Mahone is shoving himself hard into Michael, and the pain in his lungs and his lower body expand and cover him and he hears someone gasping for air and realizes that it's him. He screams from behind clenched teeth and comes apart.

When the desire rushes out of him, the realization rushes in and Michael pushes Mahone off of him and _out_ of him with animal desperation, even though Mahone hasn't come yet, making it to the toilet just in time. He vomits noisily, his stomach trying to turn itself inside out, and kneeling there retching, he tries not to choke as the tears and snot run down his face.

"I know," a voice whispers from behind him. A hand rubs his back soothingly, and Michael hates him for the comfort.

After Michael has finished, Mahone helps him to the bed, and Michael lays down on his side, turning his face into the pillow. He feels dead, empty. It's a nice feeling. He knows it won't last.

When a shadow looms over him, Michael rolls onto his back, turns his head to the side and closes his eyes. Mahone parts his legs with a soft touch to Michael's thigh and slides into him slowly and wordlessly; he touches Michael's body gently, mouthing sluggishly-bleeding scratches and bites with a softness that Michael never asked for.

When Mahone strokes his cock, he arches his spine and lets out a pained, desperate noise, hating himself, hating Mahone and this place and Lincoln's absence. He shuts his eyes tight when he comes, afraid of what he'll see in Mahone's face.

Michael doesn't respond when Mahone tries to talk to him, and after a while, Mahone leaves.

A week later, Sucre is dead, and the need is in Michael again. This time, he knows where to turn. He can't -- won't -- ask Mahone again. There's a strange ache in his chest when he thinks about Mahone and what they did, the way Mahone's hands glided gently over his body as if he were something to be treasured.

They're burying the gravedigger, Whistler says to him in his head. Michael bites his lip so hard that it bleeds as hands touch his hips, glide up his back.

"Why, what have we here," a voice drawls behind him. "Ain't every day something as pretty as you shows up in my humble cell." 

"I need a favor," Michael says dully. When T-Bag laughs, low and delighted, he shuts his eyes tightly and shudders, pretending that he's made the right choice.


End file.
